


Step By Step

by SeventhStrife



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, inFAMOUS: Second Son
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Meetings, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Near Death Experiences, Recovery, Self-Esteem Issues, Starting Over, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-03-31 22:44:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13984875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeventhStrife/pseuds/SeventhStrife
Summary: For the first time in over a millennium, the conflict between the Assassins and Templars has reached a sudden, brutal standstill. Without a need for the Animus for the foreseeable future, Desmond takes advantage of his impromptu vacation to head to Seattle. After all, Desmond can't resist the urge to help those in need, and this new Conduit Initiative sounds pretty cool.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even know why I keep doing this to myself. I crave validation for my writing, and then I go and post to tiny and/or dead fandoms. I'm hopeless.

Desmond woke on the floor of the temple and immediately wished he'd actually died.

He _screamed._  

Alone, confused, and radiating pain from every pore of his very being, it wasn't so much a conscious decision as a visceral, instinctive reaction.

The others hadn't left, apparently, or were still close enough to hear his agonized cries. He could barely think for the fire boiling his blood, but he remembered feeling the vibrations of running footsteps, hearing indistinct voices, high pitched and fraught with worry.

The pain reached a crescendo when he felt a grip on his arm, and then blissful darkness swept over him in the next moment, unplugging him from harsh, cruel reality.

When he woke the second time it was to the sterile, artificial surroundings of the Animus.

 _Of course._ Desmond was getting a little sick of the solution to any of his problems being _'slap him in the Animus'_ , but he supposed their resources were limited.

He rose to his feet slowly, surprised to feel faint aches in his body. The Animus was all mental, but maybe even it couldn't protect him from the effects of the Apple. When Desmond reached out a hand to brace himself, he froze, sucking in a sharp breath.

His right the hand, the one he had last seen gripping the apple, was almost unrecognizeable.

The burns...they were bad, and distinctly _other._ Desmond quickly shed his coat and shirt, shocked to see the marks traveling all the way up his shoulder. Script, very similar to the glyphs he'd hunted for in Renaissance Italy once upon a time, were branded into his skin. He touched them, but only felt a phantom pain. Inwardly, he quailed. He didn't even want to imagine how badly they must feel in reality.

_Ooookay...that's there. That's something I have now._

"What the fuck?" Desmond asked any God benevolent enough to answer him.

And then, like some cosmic joke, Shaun said, "Desmond?"

"Shaun?"

"Oh, _fucking—_ Thank God."

Desmond smiled. His fondness for Shaun was difficult to explain, but easy to bask in now. After all, the last time he'd seen Shaun, he'd thought it would be for the last time.

"Miss me?"

Shaun laughed, a sound Desmond realized he'd never heard before. It sounded a little delirious.

"Yes, well," the sound of an unsteady cough, " I already miss the silence, I'll admit that much."

Desmond's smile grew, and he opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted.

"Desmond! Oh my God, you scared the _shit_ out of us!"

Reality was slowly becoming more concrete, and Desmond could feel something akin to panic blooming in his chest. He was still alive, and it was beginning to  _really_ sink in. His eyes went to his arm, now forever marked with the evidence of his intended sacrifice.

"Yeah, I think I know the feeling."

Silence rang for a beat, and then a new voice came.

"Son."

Unbidden, a lump jumped to Desmond's throat. In front of Shaun and Rebecca, he could pretend he was fine. But his dad...something about a parent's presence just made Desmond want to break down.

Steeling himself against the urge to burst into tears, Desmond took a deep, calming breath.

Voice subdued, he said, "Dad."

Rebecca spoke next. "Your vitals are holding surprisingly well, so I think it's safe to pull you out. Ready?"

"As I'll ever be."

There came the familiar _pull_ as his surroundings bled away into darkness, and then Desmond was blinking harshly, suddenly exhausted. The glowing screen of the animus retracted to the side of the chair he was in, and his vision was replaced by three wide-eyed, staring faces.

Desmond managed a chuckle and a weak wave of his unscathed hand. "Hey."

Rebecca laughed, the sound more akin to a choked sob. Shaun shook his head, the exasperation in his eyes tinged with a stronger, deeper emotion, and his father's shoulders fell a bit as the tension drained out of him. It could have been the exhaustion talking, but Desmond would swear he saw tears in all their eyes.

Rebecca was on him in the next second, wiry arms winding around his shoulders. Desmond grunted in surprise and she only tightened her grip, burying her face in his neck.

"I'm so glad you're here," she whispered fiercely.

The lump came back, bigger than before. Desmond couldn't respond because in the next moment, his father was there, large hand cupping the back of his head and angling it so that their foreheads touched.

The display of emotion was shocking, but not nearly as shocking as his next words.

"I'm proud of you, Desmond. You did well."

They were words Desmond hadn't even realized he'd been aching for until he'd heard them. Blindsided, he stared at his father's face, but his eyes were screwed shut tight, mouth pressed thin into a grimace, like the force of his relief was painful.

Reeling, Desmond was completely defenseless when Shaun's hand slipped into his own. He couldn't look at him since his father's grip held his head hostage, but he had no problem hearing him.

"Welcome back, mate. And..." Shaun's hold tightened. "Thank you, for what you did back there."

Desmond was almost glad he couldn't see Shaun. All of this emotion, all of this attention on himself—that in itself was overwhelming, but gratitude? From _Shaun?_

Desmond was barely holding it together. His near-death experience, the new marks on his arm, and now this? How was he supposed to be strong and unflinching in his duties if they were trying to break him down at every turn?

Desmond's eyes fluttered closed and he allowed himself this moment, to soak in the love and support of his friends and family. By all accounts, he shouldn't even _be_ here, but he was going to cherish every second while he could.

The explanations—what there was to be found—came later once a few eyes had been dried and many throats had been cleared.

Desmond had been out for nearly _two months,_ brain kept active by the Animus. Assassin's were only growing more sparse as time passed, but there were still enough in the shadows to send reports back. And ever since Desmond's attempted sacrifice, they'd gotten bizarre. _Definitely_ more interesting.

For one, each and every Piece of Eden ever recovered, be it by the Assassins or Templars, was out of commission. William had even brought over Desmond's own, but it was true. The metal was faded to a dull grey and didn't resonate whatsoever when Desmond touched it. For all intents and purposes, it was a glorified paperweight.

It was obviously connected to Desmond, but how, or why, remained to be seen.

"What about Juno?" Cold dread made Desmond's hands tighten into fists over the blankets of the bed he'd been relocated to.

"Nothing," Rebecca said. Her dark eyes shared the same worry. "She's been as quiet as this thing," she said, flicking the Apple.

While Assassin's and Templars hardly needed a reason to kill one another, the driving force of their conflict had been abruptly and ruthlessly extinguished. There would never be peace between the two, not while the other existed, but a weird sort of limbo had sprung up. The Templars master plan for worldwide dominion had been obliterated overnight. They were scrambling, and the Assassin's were using the time wisely, to attack and recover themselves in turn.

It was the closest to boring the hidden war had ever gotten.

As a result, Desmond was rewarded some recovery time himself. He had physical therapy, partly for his comatose state and partly because of his burned arm. That kept him busy for a few weeks, but it didn't last long, especially with his Dad gone back to headquarters. He'd never been one for idleness and he felt as good as he'd ever feel, all things considered. His arm had been his biggest concern, but aside from some weakness, he still had complete motor control. He tended to keep it covered since people stared, but it was hardly a hindrance day to day. Even the pain had faded to a manageable amount.

Besides, part of his rehabilitation was catching up on current events, and he'd learned all about this Conduit Initiative going on in Seattle. Conduits had always fascinated Desmond. He'd never met one, of course, since they all tended to either get locked up or went underground, but he felt a kinship to them. It was probably weird, but he understood how it felt to be alone, isolated, to have to hide a part of yourself in case the strangers around you turned to enemies. Besides, for a lonely kid growing up in South Dakota, the thought of people with superpowers, fighting for their freedom, had been infinitely more inspiring than one of the hundreds of lectures his dad had given him on the history of the Assassins. It was part of the reason why he eventually left; they'd taught him that no one would just give him his freedom. He had to take it.

And now these Conduits were people who were finally given a chance to walk freely, to seek a fresh start, running from a dark past and trying to better themselves—Desmond had been there, had _lived_ it, and if he was going to be banned from missions for the foreseeable future while he "recovered", he didn't see why he couldn't help others in the meantime.

"Hero complex," Shaun had muttered. Desmond pretended not to hear him.

Nonetheless, he _and_ Rebecca followed Desmond when he made the move from the underground bunker they'd hidden him in. He'd worried he'd have to fight more to relocate to a big city, but his dad had rubber-stamped him with hardly a blink.

Apparently, Desmond's usefulness had diminished significantly in the Templars eyes without Pieces of Eden to discover and exploit. While he'd still have to be careful not to be spotted on camera, he didn't need to check his shoulder every few seconds.

That was probably the best news he'd received in far too long, and he was eager to sink back into the familiarity of losing himself amongst a sea of strangers.

But things would never be the way they were before. Desmond wasn't unchanged by his experiences. The Bleeding Effect was hardly a thing of the past. He still saw phantoms, and he still had to focus at times to make sure the language that left his lips was English.

He tired more often. Randomly, without reason, he would simply have to...sit down and breathe. It was as if his body hadn't gotten the memo that he _actually_ wasn't dying. And his arm ached at times, a sudden soreness as if to remind him once more of that scorching, merciless heat that seared him from the inside out.

Shaun and Rebecca treated him differently. It wasn't necessarily a bad thing, just weird. Shaun's comments weren't quite so biting, his eyes openly warm when he looked at him. Rebecca was more affectionate, slinging an arm around his shoulders or playfully bumping hips. Desmond couldn't help the helpless, confused expression he'd adopt when they pulled something like this, but it only seemed to incite this behavior more.

Perhaps watching a friend die had left scars of its own. His heart ached for them and he tried to look happy and _alive_ when they were around, like he couldn't feel a deep weariness weighing him down at every moment and phantom grief didn't plague him randomly and absolutely.

Despite all this, Desmond smiled the day they arrived in Seattle in a beat-up, nondescript van. They'd all hopped out when they'd reached the industrial apartment they'd soon call home, stretching in the rain.

"Of course it's raining," Shaun said, frowning heavily.

Desmond held out a hand, his burned one, and watched the warm water splash on his palm and trickle between his fingers. He smiled.

"I've got a good feeling about this."

Shaun made a derisive noise. "Spoken like a true optimist."

Desmond grinned, turned to Shaun so he'd get the full effect of his obnoxious expression.

"Damn straight."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had this sitting on my computer since FOREVER and I realized I wouldn't finish it until I started getting some feedback. So if you want more, comment down below! Thanks for reading!
> 
> Story Title from [I Feel It Coming](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qFLhGq0060w).


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2??? I can hardly believe I'm posting it myself, lol. Life's been even more hectic than usual back at home (gotta love family, amirite?) but I haven't forgotten this fic! Thanks so much for your comments/kudos/bookmarks! The story's only barely started, but seeing your enthusiasm really motivates me to keep writing!

Delsin had never craved infamy. Sure, he wanted his voice heard and he wanted to fight back against oppression, but he'd always seen himself as more of a face amongst the rebelling masses, ready to tear down the establishment. 

Yet somehow, here he was: the poster-child for Conduits across the country.

In those seemingly endless, emotionally charged moments after Augustine's capture, Delsin had only thought about the future in the vaguest terms. Going back to the Akomish to begin healing, looking forward to the coming days when Augustine was exposed and Conduits could finally start taking back their right to live free.

But he hadn't thought about the fact that in the public's demand for answers, they'd also demand a representative. Delsin hadn't exactly kept a low profile since his arrival in Seattle, and that came with consequences. The whole _city_ seemed to know his name and soon enough suits were knocking on his door, wanting interviews and answers.

Delsin had been swept away in the publicity before he could blink. He'd plead the Conduit cause more times than he could count, on TV and in public arenas, and the only thing that kept him from turning to smoke and making for the nearest bolthole was the fact that he was making a _difference._

With every word he spoke out for his people, he raised awareness an sympathy for his cause. The city itself had drafted a charter as well as a fund for helping Conduits, and soon a slew of donations were pouring in all over, either from sympathetic people who wanted to help, or bigger businesses that wanted to look good in the public eye. Subjectively, it was great, but it got exhausting fast. It wouldn't be so bad if he had a little more help, but, _once,_ he'd tried to pawn off yet another interview on Fetch and Eugene. Fetch had snorted in his face and Eugene had gone so pale Delsin hadn't had the heart to force him.

He missed Reggie what felt like every second of every day, but he wistfully thought of him when he was shaking hands or giving formal, grateful thanks for grants. Reggie would have handled all the bureaucracy and red tape with a lot more ease than Delsin.

Still, Delsin gritted his teeth and went through the motions. If this was what it took to see Conduits given a future, then it was well worth it.

He lived in Seattle now. It had become a city he loved and fought for, and was basically the hub for Conduits that wanted to be accepted. There were still issues of course, and there were some humans who weren't thrilled they were outnumbered by Conduits four to one these days, but it was mostly manageable. The city was recovering.

There were days when Delsin would get out of bed and hardly recognized himself in the mirror. It wasn't exactly a _bad_ thing, just...weird. He wasn't that angry kid anymore, throwing up his middle finger just to prove he was different. So much had changed since that day that transport had crashed in his small town. Humility didn't come easily to him, but Delsin could admit that he'd grown up and lost a bit of his selfish streak, the one that got him into trouble because all he could see were his own private injustices and slights and tagged walls in retribution.

But this cause he's found himself poineering—it's everything to him. He lives and breathes this, these people and easing their pain. He _understands_ it and can finally _do_ something about it. He can deal with artificial smiles and stilted conversations and peacocking for the camera. He's shaken hands with the _President_ for God's sake, and if that doesn't scream mature, he doesn't know what does.

Six months have passed since Delsin overthrew the DUP, and his pet project has flourished beyond his wildest dreams. All those donations had to go somewhere, and he'd wanted to do something that would both please the public while still keeping his priorities straight.

So he'd created the _Conduit Reintroduction Initiative_. It was a big fancy title that some suit had come up with, but the result was a large facility located just on the edge of the city. A glorified half-way house, Conduits the world over could come and find a place to stay, free of prejudice and abuse, to get them stable and adjusted to a routine before going back into the world to rejoin society.

Delsin had pictured a dorm sort of set-up. What money he had left after building he'd assumed would go to the upkeep, stocking the fridge and keeping the lights on. But, he'd underestimated Seattle.

Volunteers poured in left and right. They went through a rigorous screening process to ensure no one just wanting easy access to Conduits could get in, but they accepted more than they turned away. A lot of local businesses kept up a regular donation of goods, whether it was eateries catering to them or electronics stores donating TVs and retro consoles for entertainment. Nurses volunteered for any treatment new admissions might need, and even a craft store had donated quilts.

Here, Conduits and humans worked in harmony and showed the world that peace could be achieved, that at the end of the day they were all the same—people who wanted a safe place to call their own. The project exceeded Delsin's wildest expectations and was going a long way to restoring his faith in humanity, a faith that had been tested sorely since he'd first encountered Augustine.

For once, Delsin felt as if his life truly had a purpose. Usually, it was more than enough and he was grateful to be doing work he was passionate about.

Other days, however, his new status only highlighted the distance between him and anyone else. He had to be much more careful about what he said now that thousands of anonymous faces were reading his quotes in magazines and on blogs. He could still joke around with Fetch and Eugene, but while their bond is solid and he trusted them beyond a shadow of a doubt, there's a difference between knowing someone's deepest trauma and _knowing_ them. And despite how much shit Fetch gave him at times, at the end of the day there's no escaping the fact that they both look up to him as the person who saved them and offered them a chance at redemption. There will always be a bit of that admiration and even now they'll look to him for guidance.

So, while they're definitely his friends, he almost feels like their boss and it's not quite the same. The public and the recovering Conduits from Curden Cay see him as a hero, so even though he's meeting all these new faces, none of them are looking for the punk asshole tagger who snores in his sleep and can't resist a challenge, but Delsin, the Champion of Conduits, passionate and driven and determined to lead them all to a new future filled with hope.

Most days, he can convince himself it doesn't bother him, that it's a worthy exchange to help the oppressed and beaten. Other days he wished he could dissipate into smoke and reform somewhere that makes sense, where he can turn his head and Reggie would be there, rolling his eyes with the longhouse silhouetted against the setting sun behind him.

But the fact remained that without Reggie, there was no one he could completely and truly be himself around.

And then he met Desmond.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, the groundwork's all laid out. Sorry this one's so text-heavy without ANY DIALOGUE to break it up (that's a first for me), but it wsa a necessary evil to set the stage, so to speak. Plus, I've never written Delsin before and it was pretty interesting getting into his point of view.
> 
> Next chapter: that wonderful Desmond/Delsin interaction we've all been waiting for. (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, thank you all for your comments/bookmarks! I'm already writing for a niche fandom, and when you add Infamous to the mix? Forget about it. And most of you have said you don't even know anything about Infamous! So thank you for giving this story a chance, it's seriously so flattering! ╥﹏╥
> 
> Side note, I'm super-exhausted, so editing probably isn't up to par. I don't have a beta, so yeah. Sorry if there's a bunch of jarring mistakes. Let me know about them and I'll fix them later.

The shelter is just on the edge of the city, far enough removed to give the illusion of space without actually exiting the limits. The moment Desmond had heard about it he'd wanted in, but had been surprised that he was the only one interested.

"As cool as it sounds, I'm not really a warm and fuzzy kind of person," Rebecca had explained ruefully. "They kinda look for that in people who apply at those sort of places. I'll stick with what I know." She'd tapped on her headphones significantly.

"Oh, yes, I can't think of a more serene place to spend my time after several years of constant death and violence than an enclosed space filled with emotionally unstable people with _superpowers."_ Shaun had sounded so dry Desmond had considered offering him a glass of water. Instead, he rolled his eyes.

"You're such a drama queen; just say 'no' like a normal person."

"I believe I just did."

Desmond found himself alone in applying (with quite a bit of his resume padded with Rebecca's expertise). The form had been online, so he'd simply sent it Rebecca's way when he'd filled out the basics for her approval. He didn't have any idea what she'd added, but it must have been good because he'd gotten a call back the very next day.

His first day went great. He'd gotten a tour first thing, where he was shown the expansive, impressive facilities and told a little bit about everyone's part and their goal to help these people get back on their feet. He received about a hundred handshakes, witnessed a woman _teleport_ across a room, and ate the most delicious fish and chips he'd ever had the pleasure of tasting when his tour took him through the cafeteria.

He smiled for so long his cheeks _ached_ with it. He never wanted to leave.

His first week was like the gift that kept on giving. Every day was new and exciting. Even though he was relegated to mostly grunt work, cleaning or cooking or delivering packages for the few residents that had friends and family outside of the facility, he never knew what he was going to see, who he was going to meet, where each day would take him next.

Shaun and Rebecca were already shooting each other exasperated looks at night when they all ate as Desmond regaled them with tales of his shift. He supposed it wasn't as interesting hearing about what he saw versus seeing it first hand, but until they told him to shut up, he wasn't going to stop.

He just couldn't _help_ it. The powers were one thing—which, okay, _wow,_ what he wouldn't have given to be able to fly whenever he faced templars; the tactical advantage _alone—_ but even though he was part of something larger than himself, the Conduits and the volunteers who helped them—there was a sense of community there that he loved more than anything, that was fiercer and stronger and more openly present than anything he'd _ever_ experienced with the Assassins. These people, hurt and weakened, jaded and lost, Desmond witnessed them all slowly breaking free from their shells, allowing others to help them heal, to find sturdier footing in a world that had always been ready to knock them down.

It was admirable. It was intoxicating. Desmond couldn't get enough. Sometimes, he would just lean against a wall and look at them all, all these people working in harmony, struggling and fighting and laughing and crying and healing, and he would remember what he'd almost sacrificed back at the temple, and they all gave him hope. They reminded him why he'd been so sure the world would have been worth it.

His first week went by in an exhilarating rush of new experiences and new faces. He was friendly with just about everyone there, although he was careful not to make any real friends; as much as he was coming to love Seattle, he hadn't forgotten who he was, or his place in the grand scheme of things. Not to mention the uncertain, ominous element of Juno. His work was hardly over.

But then that week passed, and Desmond reported for his shift as usual. He hadn't thought anything of it at the time, but one little action changed his mostly-obscure status at the compound.

The thing was, he'd only been doing what he thought anyone else would do. He'd spotted someone alone, isolating themselves and crying, and when he'd learned of a fear of pain, of weakness, of being at the mercy of another person's whims, he'd reacted practically. Just a few pointers, really, on how to defend yourself, where to strike to inflict the most pain with the least amount of technique, enough to run away and call for help.

He'd left that evening with the whole experience little more than a footnote in his mind and a lingering worry that he hadn't done enough.

But then the next day happened, and Desmond was all but jumped when he walked in the door.

Conduits, most of them kids but several teen and adults as well, clamored for his attention, half-begging, half- _demanding_ he teach them how to fight.

Flummoxed, Desmond had looked around the room for help, only to be told by his boss to get on with it and that someone else could cover his usual rounds. Awkward, and a little shy, Desmond agreed and allowed himself and his group to be lead to the large gym.

They took up only a small portion of it, and for a moment Desmond stood before them all, nervous and unsure as several pairs of eyes watched him in turn, thinking God-knew-what about him, probably _judging_ him—

He'd taken a deep breath and reached for his memories back at the compound when he'd first started his own training. He moved his feet shoulder width apart and brought his hands up in a classic boxing pose.

"One of the most important things to remember," Desmond had said, "Is your stance."

Once he started, all of his nervousness and uncertainty fell away. Desmond couldn't claim to be very competent in many things, but when it came to fighting, he liked to think he rivaled the best. Something about reliving thousands of years of memories of the most accomplished assassins in history tended to lend someone that kind of confidence.

By the end of the day, he'd taught three different groups, everyone leaving the gym flushed and sweaty and with a determined, excited glint in their eyes. Desmond couldn't help his own feeling of satisfaction, how it curled up warm and deep in his chest. He'd never thought he'd teach anyone anything, but now he could only feel grateful for the opportunity. It was rewarding, and it felt like a good outlet for all that he'd learned in the animus; it certainly felt better than all the killing he'd done with those skills.

"You wanna do this tomorrow?"

The question came to him as he was leaving for the day, slinging his backpack over his shoulder.

Desmond blinked, turning to face his shift manager of the day, a woman named Roxie. She had her ever-present clipboard with her, messy hair twisted into a haphazard bun, and even though she worked a more administrative position, her worn jeans and flannel made it clear she was ready to roll up her sleeves and pitch in at a moment's notice.

"...Really?" Desmond couldn't deny that he liked teaching, but—"Is that a good idea?" Desmond lowered his voice. "I mean, won't it look bad if people learn we're teaching Conduits how to fight?"

Desmond had educated himself before he'd ever set foot in the facility, so he knew that the general public still needed to be placated, that they needed to be constantly reminded that Conduits were people and harmless so they could sleep at night. The last thing he wanted to do was unravel all this hard work and progress just because he wanted to feel important.

Roxie shrugged, a bit of steel creeping into her voice. "Hey, it's not fighting, it's self-defense. If anyone has a problem with it, it's not as if they can't go take a class on their own." When Desmond still looked unsure, she tucked a strand of black hair behind her ear and gave Desmond a look. "It's fine, I promise." Her expression turned wry, the smile lines on her face becoming more pronounced. "Besides, you're already in high demand. You really don't have a choice."

And that's how Desmond found himself graduating from glorified errand-boy to self-defense instructor.

If he loved his work _before,_ it really didn't compare to how he felt about it now. More and more Conduits heard about his classes through word of mouth, and he ended up booked solid, basically until he died. He tried not to think about the people he'd disappoint when he inevitably left and focused more on being the best teacher he could be. Already he taught a few groups that were all adults, and if he was lucky, he could teach them enough to instruct others in his place.

As a result of his newfound popularity, he now ended up at the shelter before dawn and didn't get home until well into the night. Shaun and Rebecca expressed their worry that he was overworking himself so soon after his physical therapy, but he waved off their concerns. His arm barely bothered him anymore (lie) and he felt fine (another lie, his insomnia was still going strong and showed no signs of letting up.) Most of his lessons were the basics, anyways, and he could do that in his sleep.

It was a little bewildering at times when he thought about it; the position was created for him, and people tend to smile and wave and generally get happy about his presence in a way he hadn't felt since—well, _ever._ More than once he'd had to stop himself from simply walking out of the room when his class of kids looked at him like he made rainbows and fought villains in his spare time.

What they didn't tell you when you signed up, however, was that everyone by default has two jobs when they come to the shelter. The main one is what's assigned. The second, however, is a counselor.

While the training is exhausting at times, it also has the side-effect of bringing up old memories and trauma. Desmond's interpersonal skills have always been good, almost as if in spite of his upbringing, and he'll leave the class to stretching and sparring while he pulled someone aside and coaxed a story from them. He always made sure to remind them of their new start, of how things will be different now that they have the skills to fight back. So far he hadn't been fired for being an insensitive asshole, so he guesses he's doing all right.

It was emotionally taxing work, but thoroughly satisfying. For the first time in a long time, he truly felt like he was making a difference.

In theory, Desmond knew he'd been fighting the good fight for a while now, had already made a difference every time he stopped Abstergo in their tracks, but it was much better, so much more rewarding up close, where he could _see_ people visibly improving, growing confident in themselves and shaking the shadows of fear.

His second and third week went by even better than the first, and it was on Wednesday night, at the end of his last class, that he meets another new face.

"Great job," Desmond said, not even hiding his pleased grin. Tired smiles and thumbs up greeted him around the room. "Don't forget your stretches in the morning, or trust me, you're going to feel it. Oh, and Kevin? Get better shoes, all right? Tomorrow it's relays."

Desmond's words were greeted with a chorus of groans and he shrugged unrepentantly. "Better get over it now, it's happening." This was his adult class, so he wasn't inclined to sugar-coat anything.

Desmond made his way over to the far wall where his pile of post-workout stuff waited for him. He swiped up his forgotten towel, wiping the sweat from his face, and took a swig of water, tossing a careless wave to the few people who still had enough energy (and goodwill) to shoot him a goodbye.

"So, you're Desmond, right?"

Desmond capped his bottle and turned around.

 _Tall_ , was the first thing his tired mind supplied. Quickly followed by _handsome_ and _trouble._

The tall and handsome thing was true enough: dark skin, darker hair, and muscled forearms peeking out from his pushed up sleeves—all things that were objectively attractive. His brown eyes were so dark they appeared nearly black, and Desmond couldn't meet them for longer than a second, suddenly aware of how sweaty and gross he looked after teaching all day.

The trouble part was due in large part to the tattoos and the vest and the beanie and the chain and—well, he had a whole punk, _'fuck the establishment'_ kind of vibe that Desmond could definitely understand, but was used to being more subtle about expressing.

He chastised himself a second after the thought struck him. The guy could have a heart of gold, what right did Desmond have to judge him based on his looks? Since when was he such a hypocrite?

"That's me," Desmond replied, hoping none of his thoughts were showing on his face. He offered his hand, since that seemed to be what people did around here, and sure enough the other man gripped his hand firmly and pumped a few times.

"Delsin."

"Interested in a class?"

Desmond didn't think he was and was confirmed a moment later when Delsin shook his head; Conduits, no matter how far they've recovered, tended to have the same haunted wariness that never fully left them, there in sudden silences and sharp, appraising eyes. This guy looked comfortable in his own skin, a second away from smiling and with hardly a care in the world.

"Nah, I just kept hearing about these new self-defense classes and had to take a look for myself." Delsin grinned, showing off white, straight teeth. "You guys looked pretty badass."

Desmond chuckled. "Thanks. That's pretty much the goal. The real-world application's just a bonus."

"No doubt, no doubt," Delsin agreed as Desmond grabbed his jacket, throwing it and his towel over his shoulder. "Where'd you learn to fight like that anyway?"

"Uh," Desmond hedged, wracking his brain. Assassins were trained in subterfuge, but Desmond had never gotten the hang of these little white lies. "Just uh, picked it up, here and there. I was a runaway, so it was learn to defend myself or get mugged all the time."

"Wow," Delsin said, appraising Desmond anew. He was obviously curious, but didn't press. "I can respect that. We're definitely glad to have you, though."

So he worked at the shelter. But for the life of him Desmond couldn't place him, even though the more he looked at him, the more Desmond was sure he'd seen him before.

Delsin noticed how Desmond was hovering, all his things gathered, and gestured to the door.

"I won't hold you up, we can walk and talk."

"Oh. All right..."

Delsin walked with him to the front, keeping up a steady stream of chatter that Desmond fell into easily and happily. He kept giving Desmond mock-scenarios of different fights, what to do when cornered or outnumbered, and listened avidly and with clear appreciation as Desmond responded with his own hypothetical answers, gesturing often, his waterbottle shaken mercilessly in the shuffle.

The chatted as Desmond walked into the employee locker room and as he gathered his belonging and grabbed his backpack. Someone walked by, noticed Delsin, and clapped him on the shoulder as he went by.

"Good to see ya, Del, keep up the good work."

"Thanks, man."

That was the fifth time some random passerby interrupted to offer some sort of greeting to Delsin, either giving him vague thanks or insisting he visit certain areas more often. Desmond had regarded it all curiously but hadn't said anything when Delsin immediately returned to their own conversation, but this time he raised a brow as they left the locker room.

"Okay, what's that about?" When Delsin shot him a confused look, Desmond elaborated, "I mean, why do people keep thanking you like that?"

They were at the front of the large glass doors leading into the center, and Delsin stopped and stared at Desmond. Then, something seemed to click and then rueful comprehension smoothed out his expression. He shrugged nonchalantly, decidedly not making eye contact.

 _"Well_...I'm...kinda the guy running this joint," he said casually. When Desmond stared, not quite understanding, Delsin held out his hand. For a bizarre moment, Desmond thought he wanted him to hold it, and then smoke and embers burst from his palm, wisps of it diffusing into the air, smelling of fire.

That's when it all clicked for Desmond. He'd read up on the conduit issue at large but hadn't looked very much into the specifics, like, say, the _names_  and _faces_ of the people behind it. Vaguely, he could recall an _Augustine_ and more than a few mentions of the name Cole, but it was honestly embarrassing that until now, he'd completely displaced the numerous mentions of one Delsin Rowe.

Jeez. No wonder he'd looked familiar. Desmond had seen pictures of him, all of them declaring him a hero, an irreplaceable advocate for Conduit rights. He was the reason this shelter was even _standing_ in the first place.

"Oh my God," Desmond said. Embarrassment hit him, but in the face of seeing these smoke powers up close and personal, excitement and awe quickly overshadowed it. A wide smile stretched his face before he could stop it.

"Sorry—I definitely should have realized before but—" Desmond faced Delsin fully. "It's awesome to meet you, seriously. This place," Desmond turned to sweep a hand in front of him, encompassing the whole facility, "It's amazing. I'm floored by it every single day. You've got a really good thing going on here." Desmond met Delsin's surprised eyes and his smile softened. "You're saving lives."

Delsin's eyes were wide. He didn't say anything for a moment before that rueful smile was back. He made an aborted gesture with his hand, then dropped it, palm slapping against his leg, smoke powers extinguishing.

"Thanks, man. I appreciate it. But I'm just...you know, trying to do the right thing, I guess." Delsin's eyes drifted to where Desmond had gestured earlier. "I haven't been a conduit for very long, but most of these people have been dealing with prejudice their entire lives." For the first time since meeting him, an almost grim, serious expression took over Delsin's features. "This feels like the least I can do."

Desmond could recognize a guilty man when he saw one; it was a sight that greeted him every time he looked in the mirror. Empathy moved him to reach out, to place his hand on Delsin's upper arm and catch his eyes with his own.

"Hey, this may not feel like enough to you, but it's a damn good place to start. Trust me when I say how rare it is that a place with access to these kinds of resources actually does what it's _supposed_ to." Desmond shook his head. "I'm amazed that you're nonprofit, honestly." Desmond squeezed a little, trying to convey his sincerity. "You should be proud."

Delsin's lips twitched, a phantom of his usual smile. Lowly, he admitted, "I am."

Desmond smiled back, glad to see he'd managed to help even a little bit, and for a moment they just looked at each other. Desmond's job these days was talking to people, but this was the first time in longer than he cared to remember that he'd just _talked_ to someone. Not about Assassins or Templars or temples or the next mission. Just two people, passionate about something they believed in, trying to make the world a better place. It felt good.

Plus, it helped that Delsin was so easy to talk to. He was fun, and kind, and quipped with the best of them. He wasn't too bad to look at either, not that Desmond was going to do anything about that even on the off-chance Delsin was single. But there was nothing wrong with looking, right?

Those thoughts brought Desmond back to the moment, where Delsin was smiling at him and Desmond was still gripping his arm.

Trying to look as casual about it as possible, Desmond pulled his hand back, internally rolling his eyes at how weird he was being. Keep a guy underground for months at a time and suddenly he's pawing at the first attractive person to shoot him a smile.

"Hey, Des!"

Startled, Desmond tore his eyes from Delsin and twisted to the doors, where Rebecca was waiting with her fists on her hips. Her dark eyes appraised Delsin for a moment, but she didn't say anything, attention focused only on him.

"Ready to go?"

"Y-yeah," Desmond called back, suffering acute mental whiplash. Desmond preferred to walk to work in the mornings and take in the city, but in the evenings Shaun or Rebecca tended to pick him up after the first few times Desmond walked back and didn't get home until well after midnight. He hadn't even noticed her come in.

God, he hoped she didn't catch him staring.

He shot Delsin one last glance. "Um, it was nice talking to you." There. That didn't sound too stupid.

"Right back at ya." Desmond took a step back, but didn't get any further when Delsin stopped him with a, "Will you be back tomorrow?"

Desmond blinked. "...yeah."

His answer was rewarded with a pleased, dazzling smile. "Then I'll see you tomorrow, Desmond."

Desmond didn't even try to articulate himself, furiously forcing down a blush. He trusted himself with a smile and a wave, and all but ran out the door, Rebecca shooting him furtive glances as they walked to the car.

As soon as she started the engine rock music blared through the speakers. But it wasn't enough to chase away the memory of Delsin's smile nor his parting words.

The way he said it...kinda made it sound like a promise. He'd never put much stock into promises before, but now he couldn't help but be just a little hopeful.

 _Ugh._ Frustrated and exasperated with himself, Desmond shoved the thought far, far away and turned to ask Rebecca about her day.

He couldn't afford any distractions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just when I thought I got all the exposition out, this happens...But hey, Delsin and Desmond actually meet! Talk! Dare I say--flirt, even?! 
> 
> Liked this chapter? Let me know! I feel like my writing is better when it comes to dialogue, and there's definitely going to be more of that in the next chapter. Thanks again for reading! (・ωｰ)～☆


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Seeing that I haven't updated since April...not a great feeling, lol. But I've received such kind words and support for this little fic that I was randomly hit with the motivation to churn out a new chapter. As I've said before, none of my fics are truly abandoned, and this one is no exception. To everyone who's commented, I'm so grateful for you! All my fics are important to me, but I struggle with choosing which ones to prioritize and seeing your wonderful comments makes it an easy decision; it's just so validating to hear that people love and are invested in the characters as much as I am, lol. (Looking at you, Ayaa.)
> 
> I hope this update is satisfying enough to make up for such a long absence, and even though it might sound redundant, know that I really mean it when I say thank you. This fic wouldn't still be kicking without your support!

For a lingering moment, Delsin was confused when he woke up with a lingering feeling of excitement. But then he remembered meeting Desmond and a smile flickered to life on his face, a typically rare sight so early in the morning.

_Jeez. Why am I acting so middle school?_ It was embarrassing how much he was looking forward to seeing Desmond, especially after such a short conversation, but...

There's something _there._ Delsin was sure of it. Call it a hunch, but from Desmond's easy smiles, his warm eyes, the earnest, proud way he'd talked—this guy was different from anyone Delsin had ever known, he'd bet his smoke powers on it.

Plus, it'd been so long since he'd talked to anyone before it turned to work; yesterday had been a refreshing change.

When Delsin walked into the center that morning, his good mood was immediately apparent. He got more than a few raised brows from his chipper smiles and waves, and even a comment or two about how he must have a good night's rest, both with and without innuendo.

Even Roxie couldn't resist teasing him when he came over.

"Delsin Rowe—showing up before ten and _smiling,_ without a cup of coffee to be seen? I must be having a stroke."

Delsin scowled halfheartedly and crossed his arms.

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. Can't I technically fire you?"

"Technically, sure." Roxie shrugged, eyes going back to her ever-present clipboard. She wrote something down, voice distracted as she spoke. "I'm not really worried about it."

"Yeah, I noticed," Delsin said dryly.

A few other people checked in with Roxie, getting their schedules and work assignments, and Delsin side-stepped away, greeting them but letting everyone have space enough to talk without him standing there just watching awkwardly.

When the third person was done and walked away, Roxie's dark eyes flicked to him.

"Did you actually want an assignment today?"

"Oh. Uh, no..." Delsin rubbed the back of his neck, looking away.

As practically the owner of the shelter, Delsin didn't really have to do any work at all. But he had always been the type to get his hands dirty, and this whole project was his baby, in a way. While Roxie was in charge in the day-to-day running of it—divvying up the work and schedules, Delsin was the sole exception to the rule and tended to go where the wind took him each day, from serving and cooking in the cafeteria, to playing games with the younger residents to keep them entertained.

Having free reign over the duties worked best for him and getting assigned something specific really limited his movement. But Roxie was watching him and he didn't have an excuse to give her as to why he was lingering near the front of the building.

Roxie arched a brow, but before she could question him further, her eyes flicked past him.

"Oh, good morning, Desmond."

Delsin turned and sure enough, there was Desmond, closing the distance between them with a smile on his face and a bag slung over his shoulder. He wore a plain t-shirt and a zip up hoodie just like yesterday, as well as a pair of black athletic pants and sneakers. He wore a glove, the same as before, one that was plain to see—long and disappearing into the sleeve of his t-shirt—when he led his classes and took off his jacket. Delsin wondered if it was a fashion choice, or something more personal.

Objectively speaking, Desmond still somehow managed to look almost unfairly attractive, a fact Delsin couldn't help but notice yesterday and confirmed today.

"Morning," Desmond replied, hands slipping into his pockets. He turned his attention on Delsin and his smile warmed, tinged with pleasure. "Hey, Delsin."

There was something about Desmond's manner that was just comfortable, made him answer that smile in kind with far more honesty than he intended.

"Hey," Delsin replied. "Long time no see."

Desmond's smile widened. "Yeah, no kidding. I didn't actually think I'd run into you again so soon. Figured the big shot who ran the place would be too busy for us peons."

"Oh, I am," Delsin assured him, grinning. "But I made a promise, and I always keep my promises."

"I'll have to keep that in mind." Desmond spared a glance to his wrist and shot Delsin an apologetic look. "I gotta get going; see you around?"

"Of course. Um," Delsin aimed for a casual tone of voice. "Wanna meet up for lunch? My treat."

"Oh." For a moment, Desmond's smile was wiped away, an expression of honest surprise clear on his face. But then the smile broke out again, warmer and happier than any Delsin had seen yet. "Sounds great. What time?"

"Noon good?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. Cool." Delsin probably looked like an idiot, smiling like he was, but Desmond didn't seem sick of him yet.

Desmond took a step back, then gave Delsin a little salute and walked away.

"See you then!"

Delsin watched him go for a few seconds, unable to deny the excitement that bloomed in his chest at the thought of getting to see Desmond again, in only a few hours time.

The sound of a cleared throat broke Delsin out of his thoughts, and he blinked to see Roxie, staring at him with a _Look_ on her face.

"...What?" Delsin asked suspiciously, feeling vaguely guilty.

Roxie's lips curved into a small, devious smile.

"Oh, nothing," she said loftily. "I just think it's cute, is all."

His cheeks grew warm. "What's cute?"

"Your little crush."

"Crush?!" Delsin stared at her, mouth agape, and Roxie's smile grew into a grin. "I—I don't—You're joking, right?" Seriously, _was_ this middle school?

"Honestly, it's sad you don't see it."

"He's a friend! I literally met him yesterday."

"Wow. That makes it even sadder."

Face red, Delsin scowled at Roxie—for real this time, but she didn't looked cowed in the slightest.

"Why am I even talking to you right now?"

"I don't know, you obviously got what you came here for."

Delsin decided he was too mature to dignify that with a response. He walked away to find some work to do, willing the heat from his cheeks and writing Roxie off as completely insane. Insane, or bored.

_A crush..._

The thought was ridiculous. Delsin was hardly a blushing virgin; he'd had more than his fair share of hook-ups, and this was different. He just wanted to spend time with Desmond, that was all. Sure, the guy was hot, but Delsin's first thought hadn't been hooking up.

Well...maybe that wasn't true, but it wasn't a thought that lingered once they'd started talking. If anything, he was happy to have made a potential new friend. He could admit that he was maybe a little too emotionally invested in whether or not Desmond liked him, but—still.

Delsin didn't get crushes because he was a grown ass man. Roxie was just seeing what she wanted to because she was a terrible gossip. End of story.

* * *

It only took a week before Delsin was forced to grimly face the facts:

He definitely had a crush. Actually, not to be dramatic or anything, but Delsin was pretty sure he was in _love._

Had he ever been in love before? No. But what started out as admiration had quickly grown into something far more intense, given new life by Desmond's every smile, his laugh, moments when he was teaching and he lifted his shirt to wipe the sweat from his face.

The thing was, Delsin was used to banging it out. If he felt attracted to someone, he hit on them, and if things went well, he went home with them. That usually resolved any feelings he might have had, and everyone left more or less happy.

But this thing with Desmond? He could already tell it was something completely new.

For one, Delsin actually _cared._ It had only been a week, yet he was incredibly invested in everything that had to do with Desmond.

It almost felt impossible not to, though. Desmond was just such a great, interesting guy. He was funny and modest, kind and considerate—Delsin had shadowed a few more of his classes and felt some pretty unmanly warmth in his chest when he saw Desmond on one knee, helping his little group of kids learn how to throw a punch.

Not to mention the _skill_. Desmond was a very competent fighter, yet even when he was teaching his more advanced groups it was easy to get the sense that he was holding back. That lean, muscular build wasn't just for show, that was for sure.

All of it made for one drool-worthy, impressive package. It was enough to be intimidating, but Delsin also didn't think he imagined the way Desmond's eyes lit up when he dropped by for a visit. There was hope.

He had a rough plan. Muster up the courage to make a move, and in the meantime avoid Roxie and her smug looks like the plague.

For a few weeks, he made good headway on the avoid-Roxie part of the plan. The other—was a work in progress.

In all honesty, just hanging out with Desmond at the shelter was good enough for him that he didn't feel a need rush to change things. He had time, and for once he didn't want to jump headfirst into an impulsive decision. Desmond made him want to be better than that, and he deserved as much.

But then one day Desmond unknowingly raised the stakes.

They were eating together in the gym, backs on the far wall and legs stretched out on the floor. It wasn't the most comfortable of seats, but Desmond was usually too hungry after a class to care and Delsin liked both the informality of the setting, and getting Desmond all to himself.

They tended to eat lunch every day together, mainly for the convenience of the location, but also because the volunteers who worked the cafeteria always did local fair and Desmond quickly developed an addiction for fish and chips.

"Oh my God," Desmond said around a mouthful of hot, thick-cut fries. "This is so good. Why is this so good?"

Beside him, Delsin snickered.

He washed down his own food with a swig of water and grinned. "Should I leave you alone, or...?"

"I'm not ashamed," Desmond returned, flashing Delsin a grin of his own. Desmond popped a piece of fish in his mouth and looked as if he were having a religious experience. "I can't believe I've gone my whole life without this." His tone was a touch wistful. "I'm gonna miss it."

_...What?_

Mirth abandoned, Delsin straightened from his slouch against the wall, whipping his head to look at Desmond properly.

"Miss it?" he echoed, something like fear settling over him. "You going somewhere?"

Desmond froze for a split-second, expression dropping from ease to a weird tension. It was clear he hadn't meant to say that.

"Well...yeah," Desmond said slowly. He looked distinctly uncomfortable, setting aside his food and rubbing a hand self-consciously against his mouth.

He cracked open his own water bottle and drank from it, but Delsin couldn't help but feel he was just stalling for time to find the right words. He hadn't met Delsin's eyes once since his accidentally confession.

Which was probably for the best, because Delsin knew he probably had some awful, panicked look on his face that he didn't have a prayer of changing.

"I'm not sure when, exactly, but yeah. I'm gonna move on." Desmond shrugged, a slight, listless smile raising his lips. "I'm not really the _'staying in one place'_ type."

Appetite completely forgotten, Delsin desperately attempted so say something halfway articulate amidst the reeling, tangled jumble of thoughts his brain had become.

After a belated moment of struggling, Delsin managed to ask, "But— _why?"_

Delsin knew Desmond liked Seattle. Loved it, probably. The food, the people, the environment—he dropped little awe-tinged compliments more often than he realized, taking in his surroundings occasionally with the air of someone truly content.

So why was he planning on leaving? His work here had become essential and he loved teaching. He spent more time at the shelter than he did at home, especially now that he was hanging out with Delsin, and so far he'd never heard him complain once about anything about living here.

He liked the rain, he liked the company, he liked the experience—it just didn't add up.

Beside him, Desmond grimaced at Delsin's question, his shrug tight and jerky.

"Just—it's a—work thing," he claimed, but the words rang hollow.

Delsin just stared at Desmond, beyond dismayed—leaning more towards devastation.

_Obviously,_ Desmond was hiding something. He'd never mentioned a different job before working at the shelter, and there was nothing in his voice or body language to indicate there was any love lost there. But for some reason, he was willing to leave a place he loved for it.

And Delsin was going to lose him before he even had a chance to know him the way he wanted to.

"It—look, it probably won't be for a while anyways," Desmond said, rubbing the back of his neck. He stared into the middle distance, frowning as he made excuses. "I mean, I don't know for sure, but—I mean, I like it here, a lot, but I have other responsibilities—"

But Delsin wasn't listening, not really. He was simply looking at Desmond, soberly aware of the fact that his days with him were numbered. That he only had so much time before he could no longer see Desmond, sit beside him and talk and laugh.

He was going to leave, and if Delsin didn't do anything, didn't at least try to change his mind, he'd never forgive himself.

"Don't go," Delsin interrupted. Desmond stopped mid-sentence, looking at Delsin for the first time since they'd started this conversation. When their eyes met, Delsin pushed away his food where it sat between them, the tray scraping on the polished gym floor as he swept it over. He leaned in close, gaze imploring.

"Don't go," he repeated, just a few inches separating them.

Surprised, Desmond's brown eyes went wide and Delsin knew, _It's now or never._

"You're really making a difference here, Desmond. I don't know much about what you did before," Delsin admitted, "But you're happy here, I can tell. So—don't go. Everyone'll miss you. ...Me especially." The last sentence came out quiet, heart-racing and intimate, and Desmond broke eye contact, shoulders hunching against the words.

"I..." Desmond sighed, and he suddenly looked so tired. "Del..."

Delsin could feel the denial in the air, surrounding them, could feel the words about to fall from his lips.

So Delsin did what he'd held back from since the moment he first saw Desmond:

He acted, and didn't think about it.

It took less than a second to lean over and kiss him, and when he did, it was nothing like he'd imagined. When he'd allowed himself to wonder, daydreaming or late at night, what it would be like to kiss Desmond, he hadn't thought he'd be this scared—scared to lose him, scared he was making a mistake, scared that he was trying to stop the unstoppable.

But that fear didn't outweigh the relief. The relief of _finally_ doing _something,_ of knowing that for better or worse, he knew now what Desmond felt like against him, what he tasted like and how smooth his lips felt against him.

Desmond went rigid in shock, a short gasp escaping him, and with a mental shrug, Delsin decided, _Might as well earn the punch I'm about to get._

With that gasp, it was a simple thing to deepen the kiss, to push that much closer and part those lips with his tongue to dip inside. His arm reached out to him, dragged him closer so their chests pressed together. Their legs bumped against the other's and the feel of him was—intoxicating in a way he wasn't expecting. Desperation played a part in it, sure; he didn't want to lose someone who'd become so important to him so quickly, who made him feel _normal._

But, mostly, it just felt good. _Really_ good. Better if Desmond kissed back, but—he'd savor this moment while he could. At least he'd have the memory.

Delsin almost froze himself, however, when a long moment passed and Desmond finally lost his tension. He thought, _This is it. This is when he hauls back and decks me._

But then Desmond's lips moved against his and his hands come up, grasping onto his arms tentatively. There was hesitation in every ounce of his movements, but he was _responding._ He was _kissing_ _back_ and _reaching_ _out_ and making these  _noises_ _—_ -

The low-banked, smoldering heat in his chest ignited into an inferno, and Delsin stopped holding back.

With a groan, he slid a hand up to thread through the short strands on Desmond head, tilting his head just where he wanted him to he could ravish him like he'd thought about for weeks now. His other hand, before holding Desmond against him, now stroked down the length of his back, pressing insistently, molding his body to his so that not even air has a whisper of chance to get between them.

Delsin's goal moved from _Take A Chance_ to _Make Him Feel Good._ So good, he won't even think about leaving, won't even remember he was _going_ to.

And for a small eternity, he did. Tasting that hot mouth, pressed so close their clothes seem pointless, drinking in those quiet, aborted sounds of pleasure Desmond kept trying to choke down—it was clear they were both feeling good.

But then Desmond suddenly wrenched back, cutting everything off with a jarring abruptness.

Delsin almost fell forward, barely stopping himself from an embarrassing face-plant with a quickly thrown out arm.

"What—?" Confused and turned on, he had to take a second just to reorient himself. But when he looked up, Desmond was shaking his head, flushed, with panic clear in his brown eyes.

"I—I shouldn't have—I'm sorry—"

_Oh, shit._ Alarmed by the sudden change in attitude, Delsin tried to soothe him, unsure as to what went wrong so quickly, but hating the fear he saw.

"Whoa, whoa, Desmond, calm down—"

Desmond leaned away, looking thoroughly shaken, eyes wide as he stared at Delsin.

"I'm sorry," he repeated. "I—It's not you, I—I _can't—"_

_"Desmond_ , it's okay." Delsin wanted nothing more than to have Desmond back in his arms, to soothe whatever caused his panic and make him feel good again. He tried to close the distance between them, saying, "Here, just—"

But the moment he moved, Delsin saw how his eyes zeroed in on his hand reaching out, could _see_ his fucking pupils dilate. He looks terrified.

In the space of a split-instant, Desmond's simply _gone—_ leaping up and sprinting out the door without a _prayer_ of Delsin catching up.

It happens so fast, Delsin's simply left there blinking at the empty air. For a moment, there was only the muted shock and the oppressive, cacophonous silence.

But soon enough, the confusion, frustration, worry and embarrassment make themselves clear, and the last few minutes catch up to him.

He's ruined _everything._ At least before, he had some time with Desmond. Come tomorrow, he wouldn't be surprised to hear that Desmond turned in his resignation letter and left Seattle without another word.

Delsin threw his head back against the wall, _hard,_ but the pain of that was nothing to the turmoil inside.

Deeply, heartfelt, Delsin closed his eyes and yelled, _"Fuck!"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Desmond, sipping tea:** Care and affection? Never heard of her...
> 
> So, when I originally mapped out this story, the romance was going to be slow-burn. But then I started writing, and Delsin panicked and said YOLO and here we are. Sorry if that's what you were wanting, but these guys are both aware of how short life is, and are definitely 'seize the opportunity' types. 
> 
> This chapter is very near and dear to me, because part of the reason I hadn't updated in so long was because my _FUCKING_ BACKUP DELETED ITSELF AND I HAD TO COMB THROUGH A MILLION AUTO-BACKUPS TO FIND ONE THAT CAME EVEN CLOSE TO ALL THE DAMN PROGRESS I'D LOST. It truly will always hold a special place in my heart.
> 
> As always, if you like what you've read, please let me know! It's the best way to ensure I update again, and sooner, and it really brightens my day to see that people actually like this strange universe I've carved out for these characters. ಥ◡ಥ


End file.
